Friday, November 14, 2014

napowrimo 2

Ask and Embla

drifted up from the water
no arms to hold each other

They must have come
from some forest
tripped off the edge
worn out trees once

a dead trunk on a rocky coast
rocking back and forth in some shallow
sand wore them down
no bark no bite no wit

till gods gave them
spirit sense blood and color

wooden expression

Embla's breath through
blood flows
the color of fire

They'll become trees again

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


Little bats scrabbling along rusted bridges and pinging the rivets with their echo location. That's music.

Orcas holding their breath while they wait for clueless seals to wander down to the water's edge. That's music.

Ancient vibration so slack it won't move my eardrum the width of an atom. That's music

The old priest humming through his head as he feels the air drift away on Olympus Mons: that's music.

The broken-winded centaur's battered lyre dreaming up the broken-winged fairy: that's music.

Friday, September 12, 2014

Aug 20, '14

I went down to the creek
behind my house because
that's where things happen:

the Loreleis chanting,
the water moccasins's nest.

Someone told me the property line
is mid-way through the creek.
How to find out?
of Records? "Sir, this is a hall
of records, not a lending library."

I'm puzzled by my need
to own a swath of
flowing water.
Heraclitus wags
his admonitory beard.

Down there someone threw
into one of the honeysuckles
a bread wrapper filled
with his dog's filth.

Ah, home ownership.
If I were renting I could call the landlord:
clean up your shit,
but now it's mine
and the creek won't wash it. away.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

imaginary cat

My heart is not sound.
Johns Hopkins says I need a pet,
to care for someone else.
Should I get a cat?
He'd curl up in my lap
purring like an organ bellows,
or wait patiently for his dinner
that I find distasteful

or maybe I'd be absent-minded
or stay out late and I'd come home
to find him
yowling in outraged hunger?
then gorge himself because he was afraid
because I am unreliable, and in fear
and consolation he stuffs himself with his mess.
that I clean up later.

His litterbox I won't talk about

the dead birds he brings me

He sits on my chest while I sleep,
so I wake up to his furry regard: 
El Gato, the most famous luchador,
too certain to bother with bravado:
he will never lose his mask.

Through his paws he can feel
the rotten valve in my heart;
he hears its delicate squeak,
and he toys with it.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

How would his flesh feel as you molded it with your fists? Would it be like kneading bread? Shove his body in the oven and cook it with your rage. Break off little pieces and feed them to your children. How does the abuser's blood taste in your mouth? Will you ever get your fill?

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Neil Childish

Down by the river, I smoked my doobie.